The Second Curse of the Companions
by EragonStoriesInc
Summary: The Companions, a group of powerful warriors, were cursed by the Daedric Prince Hircine. The curse of lycanthropy was difficult to deal with in and of itself, but what are the Companions going to do now that all of the Princes have conspired to curse them yet again? And what is Vilkas going to do now that he's the first victim? Warning: regression, sex, profanity, and nudity.
1. Chapter 1

**The Second Curse of the Companions**

**Chapter I **

Vilkas snorted, tossing the remains of a hamhock down onto his plate. The cool winds that blew from the Pale to the plains of Whiterun now swept across the city, diving through the great porch of Jorrvaskr. Shouts and cries echoed off of the tight buildings of Whiterun as merchants closed up for the day and parents called for their children. Vilkas already had a headache, and he'd only had two bottles of mead.  
Adding to the din was the newest member of the Companions, Velas Dotheri. The second mer Companion in recent history, the first being Athis, who leaned against the city wall, cheering Velas on. The Bosmer was an excellent hunter, and the best shot with a bow that Whiterun Hold had seen in a long time, even better than Aela (a fact that did not escape her and got under her skin frequently). Currently the main body of the Companions, with the exceptions of Vilkas, Skjor, Kodlak, Aela, and Vignar were standing around the archery targets, whooping and yelling with delight as Velas took shots at the targets.  
Velas was a showoff and a scoundrel. He boasted that he had hauled in over five hundred pounds of game once, but when Vilkas had sneered at him, "How did you carry all that, then?" he had become defensive. The quickwitted archer had come back with a serious reply days later, but Vilkas had discounted it as horse dung. The damn elf was too cocky, too sure, too ready to run his mouth.  
At least, he _was_.  
When Skjor had sent Velas on a journey to recover what might be a fragment of Wuuthrad, he had taken Farkas along to watch and report back to the Circle. Inside the target location, Dustman's Cairn, some force had shaken the entire crypt and woken the dead inside. Farkas said that Velas had shaken like a leaf, turned pale white, and screamed his head off. Vilkas had never encountered draugr before, but he had read enough to gather that this was the general reaction when the ancient coffins opened from the inside. He didn't begrudge Velas that.  
What he did begrudge Velas was the fact that Farkas had quite literally taken an arrow to the knee. The Silver Hand had made an appearance, but with each new wave of draugr, Velas had withdrawn more and more into himself, at one point babbling incoherently and curling up in the corner. One confrontation with the Silver Hand occurred at the same instant that draugr had burst out of their tombs, and Velas had broken down completely. Until then, he had defended Farkas and slew most of their enemies with his trusty warbow, but this time was different. Velas broke down into hysteria, causing Farkas to take one arrow to the knee and a greatsword to the chest. It wasn't fatal, but he was still having to visit the Temple of Kynareth every hour.  
Vilkas hated cowards. They were the lowest form of being. He wasn't dull enough to classify those who saved their own necks before others as idiotic or a separate life form. He was intelligent enough to make them out to be what they truly were; milk-drinkers without a shred of compassion or love for their shield-brothers. If you were alone, then saving your own hide wasn't a trait to be disparaged, it was a trait to be commended. If someone was putting their life in your hands and you let them come to harm because you were dealing with some petty moral or emotional conflict, then you were lower than trash and deserved the most painful death it was within Vilkas' power to grant.  
Even with his nearly-blinding rage, Vilkas had given Velas one more opportunity to prove his worth. If he had proven himself to be a true coward, through and through, then Vilkas would have quietly taken him somewhere near Rorikstead and killed him. You did not let his family come to harm. It was as simple as that.  
After the Dustman's Cairn incident, he had become somber and quiet, speaking only rarely. All of his joviality was gone, making him an infinitely deadlier archer in Vilkas' opinion. His banter used to interfere with his aim, but now that he was a silent hunter, his precision increased almost to the point of ridiculousness. This would come in handy with proving himself to Vilkas and the Circle.  
Eighteen days after Velas had returned with a seriously wounded Farkas, a dragon attacked the Western Watchtower. The Jarl had called on the entire guard except for a few men and the entire company of Companions to help combat this threat. Kodlak was a tad wiser, and only sent Vilkas, Farkas, Aela, Skjor, and Velas. Vignar, for one, wouldn't have been much use. And then there's Torvar.  
After a long, difficult battle, the dragon spitting fire and ice all the while, Velas finally dealt the killing blow. As the fiend swept over the tower, it dipped next to the roof, where Velas was shooting. Making a split-second decision, the hunter leaped onto the dragon's back. Aela ordered the guards to cease firing on the dragon for fear that they would hit Velas, but there was no need. The Bosmer was quicker than a shade, flitting nimbly up the dragon's backside and planting a foot on its head. The sole ebony arrow in Velas' possession did the deed.  
The only problem with this victory was that Velas and the dragon's corpse were hurtling at hundreds of metres per second and hundreds of feet in the air. When the gargantuan body crashed thunderingly to the ground, everyone saw the thin, wiry Companion fly off of the head of the beast and skid to a stop with a sickening crunch a few yards away from the watchtower. When the Companions and surviving guards rushed over to the bloody form of Velas, he chuckled and merely coughed,  
"How's that for courage, eh?"  
When the newly-incepted Companion awoke days later, Vilkas conceded that he had misjudged the hunter and forgave him for Farkas' injury. Velas had never looked as genuinely happy.  
The mead hall had rang with the merriment the night that Velas had returned to Jorrvaskr, fully healed. They had all gotten plastered, and a bit of Velas' old happiness had shown its face, purified of its ego. Vilkas and Farkas had agreed that they liked him better like this, and Torvar certainly enjoyed having his drinking buddy back.  
But sometimes Velas relapsed into his cocksure airs for an hour or two, like he was now. Vilkas was disgusted with the elf at times like this, but there wasn't much he could do. Especially not when he had done Whiterun such a service, and survived the tests of the Companions. He had spoken to Kodlak about the relapses of egotistical dramas, but the old man had just suggested that Vilkas should focus on when Velas was performing as a strong warrior and not as a loosemouthed fool.  
Another shot slammed home into the bullseye of the target, eliciting another round of cheers from the gathered Companions, and another drink from a severely inebriated Torvar. Even while drunk, Velas' aim was impeccable. The Bosmer could consistently hit the centre of the targets while wasted, blindfolded, bound, and beaten half out of his senses.  
Vilkas would watch, but he wouldn't join in the pointless rowdiness, especially not with Skjor lounging in a chair next to him. Night was falling, and Aela was lighting torches around the training yard, scoffing at Velas' skill. She playfully volunteered to show the hunter how a bow was supposed to work, and Velas unexpectedly surrendered his warbow, grinning devilishly and handing Aela a few cheap iron arrows.  
A chorus of "Oohs" went up from the gathered shield-siblings.  
A cacophony of laughter went up from the gathered shield-siblings when Aela missed the target completely. She thrusted the bow back into Velas' arms and stalked away, muttering about "that damned swill from the Mare's got my head spinning, that's all."  
Skjor hadn't said anything all night, but he rolled his head across the back of the chair to look at Vilkas and spoke softly.  
"I have a job that I'm going to assign to Velas tomorrow."  
Vilkas cocked his head. "Why are you telling me?"  
"I thought that you might like to go along."  
A silence between the two of them while yet another round of cheers erupted from the gathered family. Apparently Velas had just shot an apple off of Njada's head without looking.  
"Thank you, Skjor. What's this job?"  
Skjor chuckled nastily. "I'm giving him that bandit job that Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone asked us to do as a personal favour."  
Vilkas whistled lowly, shaking his head. "An entire camp, living and operating out of the swamps? We'd need Aela and Farkas for that, at least. In addition to Velas and myself."  
The old wolf waved a hand dismissively. "You forget that you have a dragonslayer at your back."  
A derisive snort. "Yes, one that seizes every time he sees a corpse."  
Skjor laughed openly, drawing a few looks from the shield-siblings in the yard.  
"True. But will you go with him? Even Velas Dotheri, the Mighty Slayer of Dragons, must have a shield-brother, and Farkas is understandably reluctant to go anywhere with him."  
Vilkas bent his head, thinking. Finally, he met Skjor's icy eye. "Only if Farkas comes with us. I'll ask him, don't bother. I need someone I can depend on to watch my back, because Velas the Mighty has displayed a mighty tendency to curl into the foetal position every time something dies and moves afterwards."  
Skjor laughed again, then agreed.

* * *

**A/N**: So, this is the first chapter! Review, rate, etc.

But I'm looking forward to tormenting Vilkas in the next chapter. :D


	2. Chapter 2

**The Second Curse of the Companions**

**Chapter II**

The ride to Morthal was uneventful at best. Farkas displayed a clear distrust of Velas, Vilkas glared at both of them like two rambunctious puppies, and Velas simply slept. Upon arrival, Velas promptly awoke and hopped out of the cart, then asked Vilkas what they should do.  
"Depends," he said, biting back a witty but wounding reply. "Are we camping, or are we just getting a few rooms at the Moorside?"  
Velas preferred camping, but Farkas insisted on getting a room, so all three shuffled into the inn. Farkas started to reach into his coinpurse, but Vilkas stopped him, indicating that he would pay. He stepped up to the counter, catching the sleeping innkeep's attention. She jerked awake and nervously smoothed out her dress, eyes running somewhat lustfully up and down Vilkas' body. He grunted disdainfully.  
_Whore._  
"I need three separate rooms, and food and drink for three as well."  
Velas wandered over and declined the offer of food, saying that he was going hunting soon and would have enough meat to feed himself, so Vilkas withdrew the request entirely and just asked for three rooms.  
The innkeep checked the ledger that she kept under the counter, then frowned.  
"We only have a single room open."  
Vilkas' eyes widened. "What?" The Moorside was supposed to be empty!  
The innkeep shrugged. "All the game's moved to the marsh or the mountains. We've got a lot of hunters in right now. Didn't you see that whole encampment of them? They're right outside town."  
Vilkas snarled quietly. Farkas was a pain in the ass to sleep with, but Velas? Insult to injury. He angrily pushed the necessary funds towards the innkeep and waved Farkas over from his seat at the fire.  
"There's only one room available."  
Farkas' eyebrows met as he contemplated what the issue could be. "So?"  
Vilkas pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. "So we're all going to have to sleep in the chairs, on the floor, or the one bed."  
Farkas still maintained a vaguely confused expression. "...So?"  
"Gah! Damn it all. Just do whatever you want until Velas and I can determine how we're going to do this. Just don't leave town, alright?"  
"Sure, Vilk. Whatever."  
Vilk. He hated that nickname. Gods damn it _all._

It was morning and Vilkas hadn't slept at all. He had mockingly offered the bed to Velas once he had returned from hunting, but the archer had been too tired to notice the sarcasm and had collapsed wordlessly next to Farkas. The two snored and generally acted like small children. Small, naive, obnoxious children. Vilkas slowly dragged a hand down his haggard face, sighing drearily. It would be a long day. It had already been a long night.  
The slightly younger twin brother had apparently found some company that evening, because he was soaked in choice fluids and his face was ruddy. Farkas had simply stripped nude and lain spread-eagled on the bed, almost immediately dropping off to sleep. This had caught Vilkas by surprise, and he was still trying to scrub the image of Farkas' cum-slicked erection out of his mind, while at the same time shamefully trying to subdue his own arousal.  
Then, Jonna had stepped in and ogled at Farkas, causing Vilkas to begin shouting and driving her out. Jonna had called the guards, who had simply thrown a blanket over Farkas and made Vilkas pay a fine for "disturbing the peace." Thirty gold. In a tavern, no less!  
Velas had come in spattered with blood and holding a sack of meat over his shoulder, which was also severely bloodstained. That had earned another call from the guards, but didn't result in a fine. He had simply dumped the raw meat on the table, stripped nude, and flopped on the bed facedown. Jonna had come in again and ogled at Velas and Farkas, and Vilkas had wearily let her. It wasn't like she was doing any harm.  
Then, at six in the morning, Farkas had just wandered out into the tavern common without donning any sort of garment at all, attracting several catcalls and insults. Eventually, Vilkas had guided the half-asleep werewolf back into the rented room and told him to get dressed, which he had done. Vilkas had stepped out for a small drink and a bit of tobacco, and when he had returned, Velas had hastily yanked the furs over his groin and mumbled that he needed to be alone. Vilkas had just rolled his eyes and left.  
While that was happening, Farkas had decided to start a fistfight with some off-duty guard, and the guard's friends had joined in. When Vilkas had gotten there and driven off the guards, Farkas' nose was broken, and he was missing a tooth. Once that was repaired, Vilkas dragged Velas outside to discuss a plan of action before the two fools got into anything else.  
"What are we doing?" Vilkas said irritably, standing with his hands on his hips like a pissed-off father.  
Velas shrugged. "I suppose I'll pick off whatever I can hit and you two will mop up whomever's left or whomever gets to us before I can shoot them."  
Vilkas grumbled. "Not much of a plan."  
"What, did you want a detailed and itemized list of actions we should take? It's a quick job; let's just get it done," Velas huffed, turning away to gather his things.  
Vilkas silently mimed hanging himself, running Velas through the back with a blade, and tearing out his own hair. It was like corralling two lame sheep on ice in summer with a troll on your heels. Impossible, time-consuming, and severely detrimental to Vilkas' will to live. They were just two big children! Velas couldn't be older than seventeen, and Farkas was only twenty-two. Vilkas was twenty-two as well, but he might as well have been sixty for all the good it did him. The only thing Vilkas had going for him was his intelligence, which gave him a maturity and clarity the other two did not possess.  
Finally, both Farkas and Velas were ready to begin. It took about five hours for the entire party to traipse through the marshes and find the ruined fort that the bandits had inhabited.  
There wasn't a single soul in sight.  
Vilkas swore under his breath. Great, he thought, frustrated. More surprises.  
The trio made their way cautiously into the fort. There was nothing amiss, except for the lack of inhabitants. Forges still burned bright as if they had been used not an hour ago. Bread was still lukewarm. Some of the mead even still had froth from being poured. Vilkas silently motioned Velas to gain higher ground and look around for anything, while Farkas searched through a small tavern set up against the fort wall.  
Vilkas began to move towards what looked like a map table under a rickety gazebo when a loud bird trill echoed across the interior of the fort's courtyard. Vilkas ignored it at first, but as it became more and more insistent, he realized that it was coming from a ledge sticking out from the keep in the center.  
Velas was whistling urgently and waving to Vilkas. Vilkas crept over to the tower, and as he neared it, Velas dropped silently to the ground.  
"What in Oblivion is the problem?" Vilkas snarled quietly, alert for anything or anyone that might've heard the whistling.  
"There are people moving about in the keep," Velas whispered, nervous. "They were descending the staircase to a dungeon."  
"So?" Vilkas snapped impatiently.  
"They aren't bandits. They looked like mages, potentially necromancers or worse."  
Vilkas swore loudly, then caught himself. If there were mages involved, then an already bad situation had just descended to the lowest levels of Oblivion. Farkas had no experience with magic users whatsoever, but Vilkas had tried to learn it once from Farengar, and when that had failed (aside from a basic flame spell), had studied magic's weaknesses and strengths should he ever encounter those who used it. Like these unknown entities.  
"Do you have any experience in fighting mages?" Vilkas hissed, senses tingling with danger.  
Velas nodded, and Vilkas breathed a sigh of relief. Good. One less load to carry.  
"I'm going to get Farkas, and we're going to enter the keep as quietly as we can and see if we can find out what in Oblivion is going on. Whatever fight just occurred obviously either happened very quickly or took an entire encampment of bandits completely by surprise. Whatever the case is, these mages are not your standard hedge witches. By the Eight, be careful."  
Velas nodded again, then moved to the door, waiting. Once Vilkas had retrieved his twin and briefly explained the situation, they pushed open the heavy wooden door, which didn't make much of a racket as it swung. Vilkas thanked the gods for that little gift; the first step in sneaking is getting through the entrance undetected, and they had done just that. Now they needed to stay alive.  
A quick examination of the circular chamber revealed several piles of armour heaped about in several places, each set stacked haphazardly on top of themselves. Two sets of stairs led to the top of the keep and down into the dungeons. Muffled voices speaking in amicable tones echoed from below.  
Vilkas carefully picked up a set of fur armour, noting that it was damp. There were no signs of combat or bloodshed, not even a burn. Other pieces yielded the same results, though some had wear and tear from unrelated scuffles. Or, Vilkas thought so.  
With a heart-stopping jolt, Vilkas realized the voices had ceased speaking. He held out a fearful hand to get Farkas' and Velas' attention, then mouthed, _Go._  
Velas slowly but surely inched down the steps, keeping a keen eye out for any indication that something was about to attack him. When he beheld the dungeon, he straightened up and motioned for the brothers to follow. Dozens of armour sets littered the wide dungeon. The room was large and rectangular, with small cages stacked along the walls and a door that hung ajar on the opposide side of the room. The armour was everywhere, and ranged from Orcish heavy plates to light leather cuirasses. All were damp and stacked as if their wearers had simply vanished.  
The three Companions dispersed throughout the chamber, looking for any clues or anything of value. Farkas leaped onto a stone dais in silent triumph, holding up a large bag of septims and smugly grinning at Vilkas, who simply snickered as he pocketed an enchanted Orcish dagger. Velas simply loaded up on arrows from an armoury and sat cross-legged by the door until Vilkas and Farkas were done rushing about the dungeon.  
Vilkas was about to hold up an Altmer warhammer in utter victory when the chanting began. The harrowing, echoing chanting reverberated throughout the room and caused Vilkas to jump, dropping the warhammer. It collided with the stone floor with a loud CRASH!  
All three Companions froze instantly, expecting enemies to come pouring from every conceivable crevice, but the chanting simply increased in volume. Vilkas motioned to advance, and they did. Whatever was in here would soon face the Companions.  
As they descended a set of steps, the chanting ceased and a quiet susurration began to wind its way through the space. Vilkas stopped, and Farkas, not suspecting any deviation from the forward movement, collided with him.  
The sound of metal on metal was deafening in the silence.  
A deep, eerily echoing voice shouted from several yards ahead.  
_"I! Smell! Weakness!"_  
Vilkas swore.

* * *

**A/N**: I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell for all of the shit I'm doing to Vilkas. By the way, I was playing a Companions character, and I passed Vilkas as he made his history wisecrack, and it was all I could do not to jump him right then and there. Damn fourth wall was in the way. :D

Also, all of you biology nerds! What happens to an organism when it undergoes catastrophic cellular regeneration?

(I'm a huge bio/English nerd. :P )


	3. Chapter 3

**The Second Curse of the Companions**

**Chapter III**

The daedra didn't stand a chance. It rushed from the room ahead with unnatural speed, but eight steel arrows found chinks in its almost chitinous armour with ease, drawing ebony blood. Vilkas' daito collided with its chest and elicited several sickening snaps from within. It roared its defiance, and Farkas' greatsword found the back of its throat. Farkas roared his challenge in return, and severed its head.  
The party rushed down the remaining fifteen metres to the room ahead, blowing through the door and stopping far too late to avoid the mages with spells at the ready. Bright beige light flashed and a sound like an explosion filled Vilkas' ears.  
When he came to, he was bound, laying on a cold stone floor, and stark naked. Farkas and Velas were the same. The room was exactly the one they had just rushed into. Its ceiling was triple Vilkas' height, and the same length. It was a perfect cubic room, with four pillars supporting the centre. A black altar dominated the centre of the floor. It was covered in runes, and a sphere of wispy shadow and violet streamers of energy hovered above the classic daedric arch rune in the centre of the altar. It seemed to communicate with the four mages that sat on their knees, hands outstretched in prayer, between the pillars. They answered in the common tongue, giving vague replies like "Yes, Master," or "Only two, Master."  
Vilkas drew his knees up, blushing. His Shield-Brothers hadn't awoken yet, and considering the sexual nature of Farkas' last actions in town, he didn't really want to be near either of them while nude. His erection didn't help the cool, reserved demeanour he was attempting to maintain, either.  
Velas woke next, and immediately developed an erection. He drew his knees up, embarrassed, and kept avoiding Vilkas' eyes. The older Companion finally growled,  
"Are you alright or not? I can't tell if you won't look at me."  
Velas slowly turned his head to meet Vilkas' gaze. He stared at Vilkas, embarassment forgotten. Vilkas snorted and turned away. Velas was fine.  
"Farkas. Farkas! Wake up. We're in trouble."  
Farkas heaved a great breath as he reared up, startled awake. As he settled back, he noticed his state of undress and sighed, as if it was a minor, insignificant inconvenience.  
"Now what?" Velas whispered, still staring at Vilkas as if he was trying to figure something out.  
"We need to leave. If we can find our things, then we can get out of this quickly and still get the coin for completing the job. If not, then we need to leave and take our chances with getting back to Morthal. Got it?"  
Velas and Farkas nodded. Vilkas rolled onto his back, then threw his weight forwards and landed on his feet. The mages didn't seem to be noticing anything that they did, so Velas and Farkas followed suit. Broken, rusty shackles on the wall served as blades to undo the bindings, and the Companions began to creep towards the door.  
"_Stop! You there!_" A voice cried, deep and powerful. Vilkas leapt forward instantly, and never touched the ground. The air seemed to twist, and Vilkas was being held by forces unknown, in front of the dark, shadowy orb of energy.  
"_And just where do you think you're going? I'm not done with you yet!_"  
Vilkas snarled and spat, once, at the orb. The phlegm sizzled into nothingness before it even came into contact with the eerie manifestation, but whatever being spoke from it took offense.  
"_How rude! I simply wished to warn you of your impending doom! A generous favour, considering the circumstances..._ "  
Vilkas narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.  
"_Ah, a silent type, eh? Listen up! And you two, in the back! Don't think I don't see you, too! If you leave this room, your friend here gets it! Now, that seems to have settled you down nicely, so I can begin._"  
Velas and Farkas had frozen at the threat of Vilkas' death, and stood angrily, faces displaying fear and battle rage.  
"_Ah, let's see, let's see... Companions, right? Of course! Okay, so... blah blah blah, daedric princes, eternal curse, Sovngarde, hunting grounds, Glenmoril, Jorrvaskr... You have... one message! Ta-da!_"  
Vilkas' expression had flattened out into annoyance; the two other Companions were simply confused. "What is this message, daedra?" Vilkas growled.  
"_Daedra? Why, the nerve of... If not for this message's importance specifically to you, I would rend you into shreds! I am no daedra, nor was I ever, nor will I ever be! I am simply a Messenger, a courier of sorts for the major power players in Mundus, and outside of it. So you would do well to watch your bloody mouth, hm?! Now, the message._"  
"_Hear, and listen well, Companions of Jorrvaskr. The Daedric Princes of Oblivion have united in their power at the request of the Father of Manbeasts to torment you further. You suffer already from lycanthropy, a curse of Hircine. From now until your dying day, your werewolves will suffer from regeneration as well. You will become like children, and be no fit order of warriors. This is the decree of all Daedric Princes. Contact Peryite if you wish to dispute this ruling._  
_ ~Clavicus Vile_"  
With that, the orb and its attendant voice imploded on themselves, leaving a small pile of ash on top of the altar. The forces holding Vilkas released him, and he fell onto his hands and knees. A sudden weight caused him to crash to the ground entirely, and he thought the roof had caved in until he heard the clanking of his armour. Apparently the Princes had deigned to return it. But Vilkas didn't remember it being this heavy...  
"Vilkas! Let's go!"  
Velas was shouting from the stairs, gesturing wildly. Vilkas staggered to his feet and followed, running like mad to escape the fort. The mages never moved, and continued to kneel and answer unheard questions.

* * *

**A/N**: Ah, the machinations of the immaterial Tamrielic powers. Love it. Sorry if somebody thought that the nudity is getting a bit excessive; I'm having to physically restrain myself from writing in a VilkasXVelas/FarkasXVelas lemon. I'm getting as close as I can... T^T

Also, if there are _any grammatical errors anywhere at all_, _**tell me, please dear gods, tell** _**_me_**.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Second Curse of the Companions**

**Chapter IV**

"I'm telling you, that's what happened!"  
"And I'm telling you, that's not possible!"  
"So what, you're an expert on daedric curses?"  
"As a matter of fact... well, no, but Farengar assured me that something like this isn't possible!"  
"Then Farengar is an idiot! We saw it happen, we heard it, and now we're telling it to you. There's nothing else I can do."  
"Fine."  
"Fine."  
Vilkas, Velas and Farkas had arrived back from Morthal just two hours ago, and as soon as Vilkas began to recount the events, Skjor had started an argument, even going up to Dragonsreach at four in the morning to consult Farengar about the curse. Kodlak didn't really believe it, but he said he'd have Arcadia check everyone's health just to be sure. She found nothing amiss.  
After a few days of bed rest and constant mothering by Danica Pure-Spring, Velas finally asked the Jarl's steward for permission to buy property in the city. The Jarl heartily agreed, and Velas purchased Breezehome, a house in the Cloud District. It was humble and small, but good for Velas. Farkas and Torvar frequently visited for drinking and general rowdiness, and sometimes generated ridiculous tales about drunken rampages across the hold.  
It was two months after the strange events of the failed Morthal job that the curse manifested, and it manifested with Vilkas. Farkas and Velas were having a pint at the Bannered Mare when it happened, and it wasn't until several minutes later that Skjor rushed in, breathing hard and face paler than linen sheets.  
"Farkas, Velas... come quickly! There's been an... something's happened. It's Vilkas! Come!"  
Farkas hadn't even hesitated, immediately knocking his bar stool backwards and practically flying out of the door. Velas had taken a second to process that whatever information Skjor was trying to relay through heaving breaths was urgent. A crisis had occurred, and it involved Vilkas. Velas had nearly overtaken Farkas on the way to Jorrvaskr.  
They had both nearly blown the ancient doors off of their hinges coming in, eyes casting wildly about for the form of Farkas' twin. After a second, Tilma directed them to the living quarters. Farkas rushed down the long hall, knowing instinctively that whatever had happened, Vilkas would be with Kodlak. He'd always sought out the old Harbinger's guidance, and when he was hurt, Kodlak was always the one to tend to him. Farkas threw open Kodlak's doors and caught sight of the old man's face, bewildered but determined.  
"What's happening, where's..." Farkas began, but trailed off when he caught sight of the naked ten-year-old boy sitting in Kodlak's lap that bore a striking resemblance to Vilkas. The boy looked up from Kodlak's shoulder, eyes puffy and red, and cheeks shining with tears that dribbled onto his chest.  
"Farkas... Farkas, I'm scared!" the boy sobbed, and Farkas rushed over and grabbed his brother - little brother - in a bear hug.  
"Shh... shh, Vilk, it's alright. We'll fix this... it's alright," Farkas murmured, sweeping up Vilkas. The boy threw his arms around Farkas' neck and cried into his shoulder, shaking and cold. Velas was still standing in the door, shocked.  
"Can I stay at your place? I'm not leaving him here," Farkas rumbled. Velas nodded twice; once, unsure, and then the next time, determined. Whatever was wrong with Vilkas... they would fix it or die trying.

Once Farkas had gotten Vilkas to fall asleep in a bed upstairs, he and Velas had migrated to the downstairs hearth and sat quietly, soaking the events in and sipping a bottle of mead. It was Velas who finally spoke.  
"What... what do you think happened to him?"  
Farkas growled. Something had hurt his brother, and he was going to hurt whatever that thing was.  
"I think those daedra are messing with the wrong family."  
Velas chuckled and took another drink.  
After another hour or so, Farengar arrived and sat with the two Companions, grilling them on the details of everything that had happened, especially what they had seen of Vilkas' transformation.  
"What did you see? How did Vilkas become... like this?"  
"I don't know, I wasn't there! Skjor came and got both of us from the Bannered Mare, and we found him in Kodlak's lap, crying his eyes out," Velas shouted, quieting down into a miserable silence. Whatever was happening to Vilkas was leaving him with a dark feeling.  
Farengar wrote something in a loosely-bound sheet of parchment, then stored his instruments in his bags. He turned to Farkas and folded his hands politely.  
"Could you ask Vilkas to come down here?"  
Farkas' answer was immediate and harsh.  
"No. Absolutely not."  
A trace of annoyance crossed the mage's serious expression.  
"I cannot heal him if I cannot see him. May I go up to him?"  
"No. You're staying where you are. Vilkas is exhausted; nobody recovers from something like this in a night, or even a year. He isn't... he's not... I can't..."  
Farkas broke at this point and dropped his head into his hands, frustrated and stretched to his limit. His chest began to heave and tears pooled in his eyes. Farengar's face twisted into pity, and he began to rise.  
"Farengar."  
A child's voice, weary and hoarse, from the top of the steps. Vilkas, dressed in a plain red shirt and pants, took the steps one at a time, being delicately careful not to fall. Farkas whipped around and stared at Vilkas, as if he wanted to protest, but he simply rose out of his seat and helped his little brother into the chair, disappearing into Velas' drinks cabinet for some kind of potion to help Vilkas steady himself. In the end, all he came up with was a bottle of milk. He grimaced, but handed it to his brother. Instead of disapproving, Vilkas gratefully uncorked the bottle and drank deeply. When he was done, he set it on a side table, hands trembling.  
Farengar was meticulous. "May I ask you a few questions? It's quite alright if you don't want to answer them. But you're the only witness to what happened, and... well... I have no other sources of infomation. Would you?"  
"Yes." Vilkas' voice was quiet, tired, and sad, and his eyes had large dark rings around them. He swayed in his chair, catching himself on the armrest. Farkas had been watching uncomfortably up until this point, but here he interjected.  
"No. Vilk, you can answer whatever questions he has tomorrow. You're tired; get some sleep."  
His voice was surprisingly gentle and caring, but he was glaring daggers at Farengar, who quailed slightly under the scorching gaze.  
"No, Farkas. It's alright... I'll listen to him. Now, what did you want to kno_aaaaaaayhn_..."  
Vilkas yawned widely, his mouth stretching comically. When the reflex finished, Farkas tried to say something, but Farengar cut over him.  
"So, what exactly did this daedra say to you?"  
"Well, for one, it said it wasn't a daedra. It said it was some sort of messenger..."  
Vilkas and Farengar continued to talk until late in the night. When the sun shone through the windows and Vilkas was falling asleep between every question, Farkas sent Farengar away on pain of death and carried Vilkas up to his bed.  
As Farkas turned to leave, Vilkas whispered in a small, scared voice,  
"Don't go..."  
Farkas immediately turned on his heel, carefully and quietly lifted a chair over to the bed, and sat there.  
"I'm not going anywhere, Vilk. Get some sleep. It's alright..."  
As Vilkas drifted at last into a long sleep, he could swear that he saw himself, as old as he should be, standing behind Farkas. Right before Vilkas' eyelids closed, the apparition faded, like idle candle smoke suddenly blown by a powerful wind.

* * *

**A/N**: Debating whether Vilkas should regain some of his childhood innocence or stay jaded. Perhaps a mix of the two would be best, yes? Eheheh.

I'm actually enjoying this a lot more than I thought I would. Definitely got a few more chapters in me. You guys know the drill.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Second Curse of the Companions**

**Chapter V**

The following morning, Farengar knocked on the door and went unheeded. He came back at noon, and that evening, and was denied entry every time. He simply left a note under the door saying to come see him in his chambers in Dragonsreach if Vilkas felt up to it.  
Vilkas finally woke at just an hour after noon. True to his word, Farkas had stayed next to his bed, but was dozing when Vilkas' eyes opened. Vilkas smiled. That was his brother.  
After waking Farkas, they both went downstairs to find Farengar's note and a hastily scribbled message from Velas tacked to the cupboard. It read,

_Skjor needs me to do a job. Be back next Morndas at the latest. What's mine is yours, except for the bow hanging over the door. Touch that and there will be a reckoning between you and I. Feel better, Vilkas._  
_ ~Velas Dotheri_

Vilkas laughed a genuinely happy, carefree laugh when Farkas dramatically mimed poking the scrimshaw bow on the plaque over the door. When Farkas posed with the bow, Vilkas was in stitches, and when Farkas fell out of the chair he was standing on, Vilkas was rolling on the floor with him. Farkas grinned warmly at his little brother's mirth, then helped him up and set him in a chair. Vilkas was still bursting into little fits of snickering as Farkas made them breakfast from some of the game Velas had caught before he left. Vilkas tucked in to the cooked venison quickly, wolfing down parts of it before it was cool. He reached a particularly hot part and jerked back, gasping and trying to roll the heated piece of meat around in his mouth. Farkas laughed with him, and helped cool off the rest of the meal.  
Farkas hadn't realized how much he missed the old Vilkas. The one that had fun, and didn't mind being called 'Vilk.' He missed the Vilkas that would play around and make jokes, the Vilkas that wouldn't ever think about killing someone. The innocent, loving Vilkas. This Vilkas.  
Farkas stopped dead.  
_ I_  
What?  
_I wish_  
A thought, the beginning of-  
_I wish Vilkas_  
No.  
_I wish Vilkas would_  
Stop.  
_I wish Vilkas would stay_  
No. Stop this. It isn't-  
_I wish Vilkas would stay like_  
No please don't oh gods  
_I wish Vilkas would stay like this._  
You bastard. You cruel, sadistic bastard.

Farkas was disgusted with himself. How dare he even think that? Vilkas needed to be restored, and there was no argument. The balance of things needed to be righted, and it was Farkas' job as Vilkas' kin to defend him and care for him until this whole event was over. A blaze of affection filled Farkas' chest, and it was all he could do not to hug his brother tight and stay that way.  
The boy next to the werewolf continued to be merry as he ate his breakfast. He happily inquired as to the day's activities, a question that Farkas did not have an answer to. So they formulated a plan; go to see everyone in Jorrvaskr and try to practice with a sword, then go to the Mare or maybe up to Dragonsreach, if Vilkas wasn't tired by then.  
After they cleared their dishes, Vilkas ran playfully out of the door and into the street, shouting for his big brother to follow. As soon as Farkas made it outside, Vilkas took off to Jorrvaskr, declaring a race.  
He denounced Farkas as a cheater when the elder sibling was leaning against the weathered doorframe ten minutes before Vilkas arrived.

* * *

_Track a prisoner, he says,_ Velas muttered to himself. _It'll be easy, he says._ The prisoner in question had been missing from the Dragonsreach dungeon for about eight months now, constantly avoiding bounty hunters and guards alike. As the best hunter, Velas was naturally the best pick to go out and find her. Too bad the rocky plains of Whiterun didn't really keep tracks that well.  
Velas was sure that she'd go north to the Pale or maybe go northeast, to Eastmarch. If she got into a major city, he'd never catch her. She'd be harder to find than a skooma bottle in a Khajiit's-  
_WHUMPF!_  
Velas picked himself up off the ground quickly, casting about for whatever or whomever he'd run into. Hell of an impact; he could already feel a bruise rising on his forehead. An Orcish woman slowly got to her feet, groaning and holding her head. Apparently he'd hit her harder than she'd hit him. As she staggered, a prison tattoo denoting a prisoner of Dragonsreach flashed on her wrist.

The woman was dead before she hit the ground.

* * *

**A/N**: Welp, Chapter Five is done. I'm writing Chapters Six through Ten before I begin posting again, but it shouldn't take me too long. A day or two at most!

So I gave Vilkas a goodly portion of his childish innocence back. Also, Velas! He's going to come back next chapter; I just felt like including a short paragraph or two that I've been trying to work in at some point. Alrighty, I'm going into seclusion until I'm done. Review for when I get back!


	6. Author's Intermissory Note

_Author's Intermissory Note_

Hello, dear readers! Thank you for reading this far, and I encourage you to continue. I was commissioned to write this by an anonymous asker on my Tumblr blog. They asked for a kink that I haven't really heard much of; regression. They wanted a Skyrim fic, and wanted one or more of the Companions to regress.

I chose Vilkas as the unfortunate sop to get turned into a little kid simply because he was the least fleshed-out Companion that actually mattered. He had massive potential for development, and went completely unnoticed. Now, the Vilkas fics I've read (for, um, _research_) have done a marvelous job of turning Vilkas into a dynamic, rounded character. "Trapped" by Evelyn Reid, a Vilkas marriage fic, did a splendid job of getting both of Vilkas' sides; asshole Vilkas and sweet Vilkas.

Personally, I love the Eyes on the Prey/Eyes on the Enemy fanfictions on Archive of Our Own. It's magnificently written, but my point for including it in this note is to point out the fic's depiction of Vilkas. It describes Vilkas as a snake; intelligent and vengeful.

I like to think that Vilkas is a mix between Trapped Vilkas and Eyes on the Prey Vilkas. He can be a huge asshole, yes, but his love for his family extends past dogged defense. But the concept of Vilkas being tossed back into his childhood and gaining the attendant mindset was definitely intriguing for a somewhat battle-hardened, jaded Companion.

But since some people PM'd me about info for Velas, here you are. He's my own character, and I love him. He's obviously a Bosmer hunter, and in the first draft of this fic, had an issue with killing things, which led to Farkas getting wounded in Dustman's Cairn. This obviously led Vilkas to be antagonistic towards him, and thus involved the two. I scrapped this when I took it from paper to WordPad (lol), and simply made him _super_ cocky, accomplishing the same relationship dynamic.

In actuality (read; in game), Velas Dotheri is a Bosmer hunter that lives in Falkreath, on the Lakeview Manor property (I just recently got Hearthfire :D). Because I play on PC, I use a ton of immersion mods, and I have 3DNPCS, which is a massive project that adds 280+ individual NPCs to the game, with individual voices in most cases. Velas is quiet, and a member of the Dark Brotherhood. He encountered a Thalmor patrol when coming back to the Sanctuary after killing Hern and Hert, and saved the prisoner. (What I didn't know was that the prisoner was a 3DNPC; extremely pleasant surprise.) And so Daenlyn Oakhollow, the Bosmer bard, owed Velas his life.

I like to play characters that aren't Dragonborn. Thus, I use an alternate start mod or just go to Riften/Falkreath immediately after Helgen to prevent the character from realizing their draconic heritage. It's actually quite nice to be able to roleplay like that. Velas was created with an alternate start mod, which I highly recommend if you're a PC player.

But enough of my banter! More adorable Vilkas!

TL;DR Thanks for reading! I chose Vilkas to get turned into a little kid because I thought it would be a good character development and it would be cute as f*ck. I was right. Enjoy my fic, and go read some of my other ones if you are so inclined.


	7. Chapter 6

**The Second Curse of the Companions**

**Chapter VI**

Vilkas entered Jorrvaskr with a spring in his step, but a few feet in, he clung to Farkas' leg, looking frightened. All of the Companions save for Velas and Kodlak had been gathered at the main table, apparently waiting for him. They stared openly, whispering to each other and pointing out different aspects of Vilkas' younger form.  
"Farkas..." he whispered fearfully. The elder brother placed a hand protectively on his back, wary of the Companions for the first time. They were a family, true, but they could frighten Vilkas out of his senses just by asking a few questions. He remembered Vilkas when he was young; timid, curious, but above all, fragile. They would harm him if they weren't careful, like a delicate glass sculpture dropped in the snow. Farkas guided his brother down the steps into the living quarters, then parted with him at Vilkas' old room. As Farkas left, he motioned to continue to Kodlak's room, but the boy remained in place, frozen.  
"Don't go!" Vilkas shouted as Farkas vanished into the small quarters. Farkas popped his head back out of the door, brows furrowed.  
"It's okay, I'll just be in here for a few minutes. Go, Kodlak is waiting for you. It'll be alright, Vilk," he said, giving a reassuring smile and returning to the room, closing the doors behind him. Vilkas turned slowly back to the remainder of the corridor, taking a few unsure steps in the direction of Kodlak's chambers. He couldn't even hear the old man, didn't know if he was in there. What if he wasn't? He'd have to run all the way back down the scary hall and find Farkas. Vilkas jumped as Kodlak's doors swung open suddenly, revealing the Harbinger with a warm expression and outstretched arms.  
Vilkas' fears were dispelled like the morning fog before the sun. He rushed into Kodlak's waiting hug, grinning widely.  
"Kodlak!" he chirped, wrapping his arms around the Harbinger's torso. Kodlak laughed heartily and returned the embrace.  
"Vilkas, my son. Come in. We have much to discuss."  
Vilkas bobbed pleasantly into the room, and jumped into the empty chair at Kodlak's table. His feet dangled a few inches above the floor, and he swung them as Kodlak made tea.  
"Vilkas."  
"Yes?"  
"Drop the act. You are no child, even though you may appear to be."  
Vilkas' face knit itself into a confused frown.  
"...Huh? What do you mean?"  
Kodlak's face was unusually stern.  
"Do not play me for a fool, Vilkas. I have known you too long. You may not be yourself in spirit or in body, but you are not this carefree child that you are portraying."  
Vilkas' face blanked, and he looked down at the floor, silent. When he spoke, the cheery element had gone completely from his voice, replaced by a forlorn but still immature note.  
"Was it so wrong to try to enjoy it?"  
Kodlak softened, and he took his usual seat, bearing two delicate cups of steaming tea.  
"No, Vilkas. You have every right to enjoy this gift. I realize that your physical limitations may have impacted your mental ones, but do not play Farkas. We spoke after he brought you to Velas' home. He is a good brother and an excellent Companion. Whatever pageantry you have displayed in front of Farkas, promise me that you will lead him on no longer."  
Vilkas met Kodlak's fatherly gaze, eyes brimming with tears.  
"What am I gonna do, Kodlak?" he whispered, face pulled into a mask of fear. "How am I gonna fix this? Before, I was always big and had Farkas to help me. I was the smart one. But now..."  
He stared at his hands, looking as if he was trying to solve an incredibly vexing puzzle.  
"Now I'm small. I'm not strong anymore. And my mind feels... smaller. Like I can't remember as much, like I'm not as smart. I'm not a warrior... I'm not a scholar. What am I, Kodlak? _What am I gonna do?!_" he wailed, burying his face in his hands.  
The old Companion rested a scarred hand on a small shoulder comfortingly. His eyes were filled with pity, and his voice was as well.  
"Vilkas... I do not know why this has happened. I do not know _how_ it has happened. I do not know if it will progress, or spread to others. We are flailing in the dark, my son. Answers are required to resolve the situation, but I do not even know where to begin. Farengar spoke with me privately and confessed that he has never seen or heard of such an occurrence. He doesn't know where we should go other than the College of Winterhold, but I promise... Vilkas, I swear that I will abide by your wishes in regards to this matter. Alright?"  
Vilkas's head rose slowly, expression betraying disbelief and massive gratitude mixed into one. He flew to Kodlak's chest and wrapped his arms around his neck, sniffling. Kodlak would keep him safe. Farkas would keep him safe. And they would all find a way to fix this.  
"Thank you," he murmured, pressing his face into Kodlak's shoulder.  
The old Harbinger broke out into a wide grin, and chortled merrily.  
"You are quite welcome, Vilkas. Now, let's go see about finding Farkas, hm?"  
Vilkas jumped up and ran to the door, face bright. When he reopened Kodlak's doors, the long hall seemed to stretch before him, and a shadow of doubt entered his countenance. Suddenly, a hand rested on his shoulder once more, and Vilkas strode confidently on, implicitly trusting his guardian to protect him. Farkas was waiting for them in the main hall, and brightened when Vilkas and Kodlak came up the stairs. His face split into a huge smile, and by the time the exchange between the three of them was done, Vilkas was riding his brother's muscled shoulders out of the fabled mead hall, whooping and shrieking the whole way back to Breezehome.

* * *

**A/N**: So I got impatient, and decided to post as I wrote. It's quicker this way!

Anyways, I'm trying to introduce a new element to young Vilkas; he may be a child, and this may impair his mental faculties accordingly, but he's just as tormented as Kodlak and Vilkas inside, despite his carefree acting. I realize that I implemented this somewhat poorly, which is why I'm feeling compelled to explain it. Gah! I'm too wordy.

How does this curse work? Is there a way to fix it? Who will it affect and how will it affect them? Will the Companions even be able to survive this onslaught? And what powers of Tamriel will be drawn by the mysterious events, seeking a similar gift?

This is hella deep for a commish. o.O

pardon my slang, i feel disgusting now


	8. Chapter 7

**The Second Curse of the Companions**

**Chapter VII**

The roar shook the weathered stone walls and echoed across the plains, instilling a primal fear in every soul that heard it. Velas was one of those.  
The hunter was sprinting into Whiterun at full tilt, drenched in sweat with blood caked in several places on his armour. A nasty cut across his shoulder and a scratch above his eye would certainly leave scars. His bow and arrows bounced on his back as he rammed the front gates of the city, causing them to swing wide and clip the guard inside of the gate. The guard began to protest, but Velas inhaled deeply and roared,  
"DRAGON!"  
Immediately the entire city began to fly into action, civilians ducking inside the nearest buildings and guards readying arrows coated with a special mixture that Arcadia had come up with, despite her novice skills at alchemy. The solution would partially dissolve and soften whatever dragon scales they came into contact with, but it only worked in some cases. For example, if it was raining, the solution would come off in the quiver or in midair. If it was too humid, the same thing would happen. If the dragon was one of the rare green or golden varieties that the Companions had encountered, then it would have no effect regardless of potency. Aela had become entirely too frustrated with the fallible acid and just resorted to a bow that Farengar overcharged to enchant. Eight thousand gold. Honestly. Luckily the Jarl had gotten him to lower his prices on behalf of Kodlak.  
This dragon was common to the plains, and was more cocksure than the rest, at one point even settling on the main gate to cackle hoarsely at the arrows that seemed to be ineffectual but were gradually dissolving the thick plates over the beast's chest. Velas was loosing arrow after arrow with inhuman speed, surprising even some of the swiftest guards. One guard who had lost his helm diving out of the way of a blast of fire sidled over to Velas as they both shot like mad.  
"Nice weather, eh?" he quipped, and Velas laughed. The guardsman almost kept up with Velas' rate of fire, sometimes nocking two or even three arrows at once. Velas had a keen eye for marksmanship, and he immediately noticed the disparity between this guard's and his compatriots' stances. In fact, the guard's position almost mirrored his own...  
The guard let three arrows fly, and all of them collided with the dragon's snout, causing it to rear back and snort irritably, smoke jetting out of its scaled nostrils. A collective whoop went up from the defenders, aggravating the dragon. As it took a rattling breath, the cheers turned into warning cries. Most everyone dived into an alley or behind a building just as the scorching flames leapt from the dragon's toothy maw and painted the main street.  
Velas was panting, yet the guard next to him seemed fine. He took the opportunity given by the brief intermission to inquire about the guard's stance. The Nord had chuckled mirthlessly, eyes taking on a bleak cast.  
"I had a good teacher," he had replied, his voice laden with sarcasm. Velas wanted to inquire further, but there was a more pressing matter.  
Velas quickly leaned out from the corner of Warmaiden's to see what the situation was, then leapt out from cover and crossed the street in a flash. At a blinding speed, he jumped and hauled himself up to the roof of the barracks, then a quick skip onto the wall, then a dive onto the dragon just as it took off. Cries of "Dragonslayer!" went up from the guards as they abandoned their cover to get a better view of the unfolding drama.  
Not again, Velas groaned inwardly. The dragon was too busy spitting words in a language that nobody understood at the guards below to notice him, but even if it had, it was already too late. Velas removed his lucky ebony arrow from a hidden quiver in his cuirass and nocked it firmly in the worn warbow.  
"Have a nice trip!" Velas shouted over the wind. catching the dragon's attention. Its eye widened in shock as it realized its mistake. "See you next _fall_!"  
**_ THUNK!_**  
When Velas picked himself out of the roof of the Drunken Huntsman, his right leg was broken, as was his left arm, and his bow was missing. There was also a large lump on the back of his head, but he couldn't feel it. The dragon had mercifully wheeled over the Pelagia Farm in its death throes, finally carving a massive furrow in the frozen dirt after narrowly missing the windmill. Velas lost the strength to move after he rolled out of the splintered wood, and landed painfully on the ground. He turned his face just in time to see the first snowfall of the year, the white flakes drifting peacefully from the heavens.  
_That's... nice. Snow can be used to treat burns and it'll also put any fires out. Thank the Divines, I suppose. Plus I also get to see the famous beauty of Skyrim's snow plains when I wake up. Nnh..._

Vilkas sat on a chair in the Temple of Kynareth, watching Velas sleep. His legs didn't touch the floor, so he swung them. This irritated him less than it once did, and the repetitive motion helped to calm him, so he had stopped trying to sit on the edge of seats so his feet were flat on the ground.  
Danica had said that she'd watched Velas fall of that dragon purposely, aiming for the tallest thing nearby. She said that it was the smartest thing to do.  
Vilkas thought hard. What if he had been in that situation? What would he have done if he were in Velas' position? Dead or dying dragon, moving fast, hundreds of metres in the air, and the path of least resistance involved a possibility of death. He had fretted over the problem as he had sat with Velas for the past five or so hours, worrying over every detail of the scenario and trying to ascertain if anything was wrong with his mental acuity. He thought out the problem from every perceivable angle, and he was unsure what his answer was.  
It frightened him terribly.  
Velas began to groan and stir, and Velas shouted for Danica. She hurried over in seconds, checking that there wasn't some new complication. When Velas coughed and tried to sit up, she sighed with relief but pushed him down, whispering,  
"Velas, it's okay. You're in the Temple of Kynareth. I'm tending to you. Please remain still."  
Velas laid back down tentatively, sucking air through his teeth when one of his injuries was aggravated. He looked vaguely confused, and kept looking from Vilkas to Danica to the ceiling. The expert healer noticed this, and a concerned cast crept onto her face.  
"Velas, do you remember what happened?"  
He nodded, still silent and unsure.  
"Well? Why are you here, Velas? For what injuries?"  
He worked his mouth for a second, but only croaks came out when he tried to speak. Finally, he rasped,  
"_Mead._"  
"I don't think-"  
"_Mead. Pl-please._"  
Danica snatched a bottle of Honningbrew from a shelf without further question and tipped the bottle between Velas' lips, He drank deeply and gargled the sweet liquid, speaking at last once he was finished.  
"I fell off of that dragon onto the Drunken Huntsman, right?"  
Danica nodded, relieved.  
"Then... wait, how many days has it been?"  
Vilkas piped up at this point, smiling in an attempt to assuage some of the archer's doubts.  
"It's only been a few hours, five at the most."  
Velas shot upright, tearing a stitch. His face drained of blood, but he feebly pushed Danica away and staggered toward the door frantically. Danica reached out with a clawed hand that radiated magic and grabbed the door handles with telekinesis, forcing them shut. Velas pounded weakly on the door, then turned to Danica with a feral glint in his eye.  
"Release the doors! It's urgent!"  
The priestess was adamant. "You're too weak. You just fell from hundreds of feet in the air onto a building, for the gods' sake! Lay down; whatever it is can surely wait until you've rested."  
Velas shook his head stubbornly, whipping his unkempt mane of black hair around.  
"No! This is too important. Release me, Danica. I'll return within the hour, I swear."  
Her eyes narrowed.  
"Is this so important that you would risk bleeding out internally over it?"  
"Absolutely."  
She exhaled raggedly, then dispelled the Alteration magic with a flick of her wrist.  
"Go, and if you aren't back here in an hour, I'm personally hunting you down with three guardsmen."  
Velas nodded and stumbled backwards out of the door. Vilkas had been watching with a strained expression, but now he ran after his friend, calling for him to wait.  
The Bosmer was fast. In the time that it took Vilkas to make it to the door, he was already bolting down the steps to the market. When Vilkas got to the market, he was already at the front gates. When Vilkas came out of the gates, he was already at the crossroads.  
"Wait!" he cried, hunching over and gasping for air. The world spun and Vilkas fell backwards, bruising his backside on the hard cobblestones. He felt his face redden and tears spring to his eyes at the sudden pain, but he clawed at his face angrily.  
Crybaby, he thought. Get up and follow him already!  
Vilkas rose unsteadily, looking for Velas farther down the road. He was nowhere in sight.  
"Damn!" he screamed, gesturing wildly in anger. Then he heard snickering and stopped dead, rage close to its boiling point. Vilkas turned with a deadly precision, listening for the source of the laughter.  
"Shh, shh, he's looking at us. Pfft!" the gate guard whispered loudly to his partner, covering his mouth and struggling to keep his expression neutral. He was failing miserably.  
Vilkas took one precise step closer to the guards. And another. And another. And as he drew up to the guards, he remembered with a massive burst of frustration that he was no longer the intimidating, muscled figure that he was three weeks ago. Again, tears threatened to gush out of his eyes, and again he angrily swiped them away.  
The other guard leaned down with an expression of pity.  
"Boy, what's wrong? Where are your parents? Do you have any-"  
"Siblings? Yes, he does," Farkas growled, stalking out of the gate and standing by Vilkas protectively.  
The guard was caught between trying to apologize and trying to figure out who the kid was.  
"Pardon me, si- I'm sorry, Companion... ah, Farkas, but who's...?"  
The guard stammered into an uncomfortable silence, an advantage that Farkas used to sweep Vilkas back into the city. The instant they were inside the gate, Farkas pulled Vilkas into the small corridor built into the wall.  
"What in Oblivion were you thinking, running out there by yourself?"  
Vilkas was indignant and still furious with those guards for mocking him. His anger was reflected in full force onto Farkas.  
"What was_ I_ thinking? I can go wherever I please, _brother_, and I was trying to-"  
"Not when you're... like this!" Farkas shouted, gesturing vaguely at Vilkas. "Not when Kodlak made me responsible for you! Not when I would've been responsible for you anyways, as your brother! _Older_ brother," he added, eyes narrowing. Vilkas was taken aback.  
"I... I was just... I- _I'm not a child, Farkas!_" he screamed, brushing past his brother and sprinting into Whiterun, ducking between buildings and taking paths only someone who grew up in Whiterun would know existed. Farkas followed his distraught brother fine at first, but as Vilkas' rage fueled his speed, he actually managed to lose Farkas. Farkas stopped dead in the middle of the market, looking wildly about for Vilkas and seeing only the normal residents of Whiterun. Worry dug its claws into Farkas' throat, causing him to sweat in his steel armour. Where was he...?  
A flash of a familiar red shirt. A passing glance of a familiar face. A brief blur of dark red and brown and beige, and then Vilkas was gone again. Farkas stood poised on one foot in the direction that he thought Vilkas had gone, unsure. Then the crash of the main gate opening quickly told him exactly where his quarry - his brother - was.  
Whipping around, he saw Vilkas flee out of the gate, but he didn't turn with the path. Instead he took a flying leap off of the wooden walkway onto a small guardhouse's roof and tumbled down the side, slipping on the fresh, thin snow. Farkas was already running at full speed when he heard the sharp cry of pain. Even though the guards were half as far away as Farkas was, the older Companion reached the ledge before they did. He nearly slid off of the walkway trying to stop.  
When he looked down, there was a small, fresh bloodstain on the rubble and a faint outline of a child's footprints heading west.

Velas had returned from his errand and insisted that Danica finish her treatments as quickly as possible once he had heard about Vilkas' escape. Danica had hemmed and hawwed, but eventually given up and finished her treatments, with a final admonishment that anything worse than a short walk would tear stitches and cause him to bleed out so fast that not even a dragon could get him back in time. He hadn't listened at all and thrown himself out of the door after Farkas.  
Now it was getting dark, and even with Aela's help, they hadn't been able to pick up Vilkas' trail past the small pool with a skeletal arm poking out of it. The shortsword that was previously lodged within the ancient bone fingers had been pried out, and Farkas had a sneaking suspicion as to who had it now. Only Vilkas would remember the little joke they had played as children; sticking that arm there and securing it with nails and poking whatever toy swords they could fit in the hand. Just a month before Vilkas' transformation, Farkas had placed the steel shortblade in the grasp of the hand as something of a nostalgic trip and a good luck charm. Vilkas had seen it and laughed, remembering the old joke.  
When the moons were high in the night sky, Aela insisted that they return to Jorrvaskr, or at least Whiterun. Farkas refused until the older woman simply grabbed him in a headlock and dragged him back. Velas had a good laugh over that.  
But now Farkas was slumped over on the table that Uthgerd usually occupied, face burning from the tear tracks that ran down it. He had failed Kodlak. He had failed Vilkas. He wasn't fit to be anybody's guardian, especially not someone as precious and important as Vilkas. What good was strength when there was no intelligence to guide it?  
Farkas heaved another breath, causing another few tears to spill out of his puffy, melancholy eyes. Saadia wandered over and sat down in the other chair, patting Farkas' arm softly.  
"Is there anything I can get for you?" she asked quietly, the pity evident in her voice.  
"Another bottle of mead," he muttered huskily, the grief evident in his.  
Saadia got up and silently handed him another bottle. Farkas uncorked it, downed it in three gulps, and slammed it down on the table, moaning into the table. The entire tavern was quiet, out of respect for the present and missing Companions in distress. As the patrons left and the hours ticked by, people came up to him and offered their condolences, as if Vilkas had actually died and hadn't just gone missing. Sinmir was the last, and as he began his spiel about how he was sorry for Farkas' loss, the Companion reared to his feet and roared into the other man's face, tears and fluids flying,  
"_He! Isn't! Dead!_"  
Instead of picking a fight as he normally would, Sinmir simply backed away and exited the inn. Farkas hated it. They should be helping him look instead of just keeping their distance or giving him his space! Vilkas wasn't dead! He wasn't!  
But he will be soon if you can't find him, a small, treacherous voice snickered in the back of his mind.  
With an awkward lurch, Farkas realized that he had flipped the table in his agony and began to shamefully right it and its former contents. After a minute, Saadia sat down beside him and helped him. She moved closer until she was sitting next to him.  
"It'll be alright, Farkas," she murmured, putting an arm tentatively around his shoulders. After a second, he rolled into her embrance, openly groaning and wailing. Hulda kept her eyes averted out of respect for the warrior, and Saadia held him as he spent his remorse.  
Nobody could tell, but the one phrase Farkas kept repeating over and over through his tears was, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

* * *

**A/N**: Oh gods, I'm so cruel to Farkas. Where's Vilkas? What's he up to?

Sorry if you guys think I'm spamming emotional crying scenes. Tell me in a review and I'll fix it. PM me and I will be under your bed with a shotgun when you get home. No PMs unless you're contacting me about another fic. I will _hunt_. _You_. **_Down_**.

But I've had this in mind for a while. Wanted Vilkas to run off! The next chapter will be devoted to what in Oblivion he's doing! It'll be fun, trust me. Truuuust meeee...

Also, a question that I've been meaning to answer. Yes, dragons have returned. If you read your lore, dragons didn't just spontaneously start popping up when Alduin attacked Helgen; no, they were a problem for several months beforehand. This is taking place a bit before Helgen gets demolished, because once that happens, I'm going to introduce the Dragonborn! And no, Velas is not the Dragonborn. Let me be clear.

**_VELAS IS NOT THE DRAGONBORN. VELAS IS NOT THE DRAGONBORN. VELAS. IS NOT. THE _**_**DRAGONBORN.**_

There. *dusts hands* That should do it.

Also, I lied in the fifth chapter. I said Velas would pop up in the sixth and then I forgot to write him in. It all worked out, because I got to start the seventh chapter with him. It's all good. Review, rate, etc.

I need feedback, people!


	9. Chapter 8

**The Second Curse of the Companions**

**Chapter IIX**

_Not enough furs, not by a long shot,_ Vilkas mused to himself as he lay in the snowdrift, freezing. It had snowed harder near the Reach, and the western areas of the plains had seen one or two feet of snow. Vilkas, wearing only simple clothes and a fox pelt, had run right into the brief snowstorm. It had only lasted for three hours, which seemed like an eternity in the blinding, numbing cold. Finally, Vilkas had given up. He'd long since accepted that it was the stupidest thing he could've done, and already berated himself for it. Now that he couldn't really feel anything anymore, all he could do was wait to die. He closed his eyes. Was that a bit of warmth he detected, or was that just the burn from the cold? No, it was just the cold.  
Vilkas half-remembered a winter when he and Farkas had been six. They had ventured outside Jorrvaskr for a while and found half of Whiterun engaged in a huge snowball war. Even the Grey-Manes and the Battle-Borns were in on it, something that Vignar liked to say contributed to the current bad blood between them. He and Farkas had tried to compete, but Skjor had kept them in the great porch of Jorrvaskr, to prevent them from coming to harm. He remembered Danica showing up for drinks a few days later and complaining about the sheer amount of broken noses from disputes over who had actually pegged whom.  
Vilkas snapped out of his reverie as a familiar and now terrifying shuffling sound came within his earshot. With it came laboured breathing and an awkward gait that could only belong to a troll. And it was heading straight for Vilkas.  
_Great,_ he thought. _Instead of a calm death by frost, I get to be eaten alive and pulverized, and not necessarily in that order._  
The troll came closer to the snowdrift, snuffling around. It perked up, began to pound the ground excitedly, and clawed at the drift, trying to uncover whatever potential source of food was inside. Vilkas whimpered, fear overwhelming his near-death-induced apathy and telling him to run. Trolls were slow; he could outrun it. But there wasn't enough time.  
The troll's beady eyes caught sight of Vilkas, lying blue and curled up in the drift, and it began to hoot and slobber, tearing the drift apart to unearth its prize. It reached for him and he curled up tighter, dread filling him like molten iron.  
The troll screamed. It _screamed_. It burst into flames right before Vilkas' eyes, spinning away from the drift and attempting to evade its unseen attacker. A bolt of lightning from nowhere pierced its heart, leaving a smoking hole. The troll collapsed, utterly dead.  
A more humanoid hand reached for Vilkas, but he was too weak to take it. He feebly lifted up a hand, but the action caused a rush of blood to his head. He was out cold before his hand sunk back into the snowdrift.

Vilkas awoke, and for that, he was grateful. He was wrapped in a woolen blanket and tucked inside a bedroll, lying next to a blazing campfire. He stretched slowly, feeling his recently thawed muscles protest. He snuggled a bit into the soft material of the bedroll; it was actually quite comfortable. He was warm and snug, a stark opposite to his near-death experience just a few hours before.  
He took stock of his surroundings. He was in the Reach, that was certain; scrub and rock as far as he could see. He was lying next to the fire in somebody's camp, and whoever that was had been there incredibly recently, maybe had just left as Vilkas had woke. The camp was high on a ledge, overlooking a road. Vilkas shrunk back into the sleeping bag, a sense of vertigo creeping over him. He must've been eighty feet up!  
It was still snowing, and small flurries wisped through the camp on occasion, but most of the snow melted away before even coming near the fire. Whomever had built it knew what they were doing, and had a little something extra. Vilkas peered closer at the fire, trying to determine why it was so hot. Was that a bit of fire salt on that log?  
He got out of the bedroll, fear of heights forgotten, and shuffled curiously over to the fire, searching it for anything unusual. As the wind picked up a bit, he shivered, pulled the blanket closer around himself, and crouched next to the campfire.  
As Vilkas scooted closer to the fire, warming his hands, he accidentally kicked over a bowl of broth that he hadn't seen. The steaming liquid splashed over the rocks and dripped down onto the ground below.  
"Ah, no," he muttered, picking up the bowl. He went over to a small rack that was meant to hold the bowl near the hot flames for cooking, and placed it in the holder. There were a few sacks leaning up against a fur tent, and Vilkas dragged them over after confirming they contained cooking ingredients.  
Vilkas arranged all of the necessary tools and ingredients, then started. Or, tried to.  
How exactly did one make a broth...? Vilkas knew that he used to know - he used to be a splendid cook - but now...  
Vilkas snarled with frustration, slamming a spoon back in the empty pot and stalking back over to his bedroll, throwing himself on it. How was he supposed to do this? Whoever that belonged to would get mad that he had spilled it and been unable to fix it, and then they would yell at him and maybe throw him back into the cold...  
Vilkas felt his bottom lip begin to tremble. He stopped, startled and disgusted with himself. What was wrong with him? It was nothing; the owner of the camp obviously had enough food that a little broth gone wouldn't trouble him.  
But still... Vilkas felt bad inside. He felt like he was going to be scolded and maybe cuffed on the ear, maybe not be given food. He felt like a naughty child. He bent his head and stared miserably at his ragged shoes, resigned to a punishment of some sort.  
It wasn't until the sound was almost to the ledge that Vilkas heard it. A wheezing, heaving breathing, combined with the sounds of somebody climbing a rock slope. Vilkas rushed over to the ledge, peering cautiously over the side.  
A Nord man met his eyes, clinging to the rock face. The man was old, almost as old as Kodlak. He was dressed in worn leather armour and had a long beard. His right eye was a milky white, and he had a long scar under it, like Skjor, but reversed. Vilkas shot back from the edge and over to the fire, casting wildly about for anything he could defend himself with. The best he could come up with was an iron cooking knife.  
He didn't realize the man was trying to speak to him until he had the knife in a 'ready' position.  
"Boy! Come here, I need assistance! Boy! Boy!"  
Vilkas moved slowly over to the edge, holding the knife where the man could see.  
"What do you want?" he spat, trying to inject loads of venom into his tone and somewhat failing.  
"I want to get up to my camp, that's what! Now help me up, I'm slipping-!"  
Vilkas tossed the knife away instantly and grabbed his hand, pulling with all of his might. The man managed to grab the ledge and haul himself up onto his chest, breathing heavily.  
"Pull... pull me up," he wheezed. Vilkas grabbed the straps of his armour and tried to drag him back towards the fire, but the man was too heavy. The old Nord huffed, then in a quick motion removed a steel dagger from his belt, slammed it into a patch of less frozen dirt and hauled himself up tiredly with the new handhold. He removed the blade, examined it, then tossed it over the side with a snort and a shake of his head.  
"I... I'm sorry," Vilkas volunteered, but the man ignored him and sat wearily by the fire. Vilkas sat on his bedroll, a few feet away from the man.  
Vilkas felt wretched. Now that man was going to ignore him for not being helpful at all. For not being strong enough. The young boy felt his emotions knot in his chest and looked down, the picture of genuine remorse and sorrow.  
The man noticed when Vilkas shoulders began to jump, indicating that he was crying silently. He rested a hand on Vilkas' back, exactly like Kodlak had done, and smiled reassuringly, like Farkas had done.  
"It's... it's alright, I'm not angry with you. I'm fine. I just need a moment to catch my breath, okay? This old skald isn't what he used to be," he finished with a chuckle.  
Vilkas looked up with a confused expression.  
"But... the broth...?" he stammered, pointing at the spilled liquid. The old man noticed, and just laughed.  
"It's alright, it's alright. I have plenty of food; a little broth won't hurt me - us - terribly until we can get more. Just look where you step in the future, alright?"  
Vilkas nodded happily, relieved beyond words. The man wasn't mad; he was nice and friendly. He sat contentedly, humming to himself. After a few bars of Ragnar the Red, the man picked up on the tune and began to sing in a low, deep voice that seemed to have the power to command anything that heard it. Vilkas realized that the man was indeed a skald, a Nordic bard of sorts.  
_Wait, he said that. D'oh._  
Vilkas continued humming as the man sung the lyrics, both of them swaying slightly in tandem.  
"Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red, who came riding to Whiterun from old Rorikstead!"  
Here, Vilkas started singing the lyrics, switching roles with the skald.  
"And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade, as he told of bold battles and gold he had made!"  
They switched again, Vilkas humming with renewed vigour.  
"But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red, when he met the shieldmaiden Matilda, who said..."  
Vilkas sung the next verse triumphantly, holding his arms up dramatically, eliciting a laugh from his friend.  
"'Oh, you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead, now I think it's high time that you lie down and _bleeeeeeeed!_'"  
The skald resumed the lyrical portion.  
"And so then came clashing and slashing of _steeeeel_, and the brave lass Matilda charged in, full of _zeeeeeal!_"  
The skald was up onto his feet, kneeling and posing as if on stage and dragging out the words dramatically. Vilkas was in stitches, rolling around and unable to get a breath, so the man finished the song.  
"And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no _moooooore_..."  
The skald quickly threw a hand into one of the sacks of food, removing a cabbage and rolling it over to Vilkas, which just redoubled his hysterics,  
"When his ugly red head rolled around on the _floooooooor!_"  
When they both had finished laughing, they resumed their seats, occasionally chuckling or snickering, even breaking back out into full laughter again.  
"Hoo hoo hoo hum... that was pretty funny!" the man laughed, and Vilkas nodded in agreement, trying to contain another bout of giggles.  
"So... what is your name?" the man inquired, still smiling. Vilkas replied without thinking, giving his name freely. He froze, mirth banished instantly, as the man's face twisted into confusion.  
"...Vilkas? Isn't that the given name of one of the Companions...? Are you any relation?"  
"N-no," Vilkas lied badly, looking away and shifting uncomfortably. The man mercifully let it go, and continued humming Ragnar the Red, Mogo's Mead, and several other songs to get Vilkas to laugh again. When he came to the tale The Wolves of Jorrvaskr, Vilkas stopped. The man sung the song without realising its significance. But there was something Vilkas had neglected. Something he had forgotten about. A weight off of his mind that he hadn't even realized was gone.  
_Where was his wolf?_

Vilkas and the skald arrived at Markarth the next day. The man had revealed his name to be Ogmund, the resident bard in the City of Stone. He had let Vilkas stay at his house, with a warning to not trifle with any of the guards and not to go out past dark.  
"The Forsworn have been more active lately. They're bandits, madmen, that believe that they should rule the Reach. They attack anybody they find on the road, and there have been attacks in the city, though the guards deny it. Stay safe, and stay out of the way of the Silver-Bloods and the Thalmor," he admonished, departing for the inn.  
Vilkas was subdued. He felt empty. His wolf, that constant voice that urged him onwards to violence and rage, was gone. He searched himself, looking for even the slightest indication that he retained his beast-blood. There was none.  
At first, he was joyful. He was free -_ free!_ - of the curse that had plagued him for years. Skjor had incepted him, and once he realised that being a lycanthrope meant murder if he lost control for even a second, he loathed it. He and Farkas had jointly disliked turning, and when Kodlak expressed his similar distate, Vilkas was overjoyed that somebody as influential and wise as Kodlak saw that the dangers of the blood outweighed the benefits. It had vindicated him.  
He didn't realize how attached he had been to that small voice in the back of his head. Now that it was gone, Vilkas was truly alone with his thoughts.  
He sighed, inhaling and exhaling slowly to calm himself. What was he feeling? Elation... sadness... happiness... confusion... frustration... disorientation... contentment? What was that emotion? That emotion that put a knot in the back of his throat and made his heart thrill? That emotion that sharpened his visual and olfactory senses?  
_Freedom_, he realised. _I am free._  
Free from the Companions, free from his curse (one of them, at least), free from responsibility. Free from the worries and fears that plagued him. No longer would he have the deaths of the new-bloods and the victims of his rare transformations on his hands. No longer would he have to lead anybody, or have duties to attend to. _Free!_  
Vilkas ran out of Ogmund's house, stopping for a moment to lock the door. He flew around the city with an expression of pure glee, causing more than one person to break out into a smile. He was running through the small tunnel at the center of the city and across a small bridge, looking up with wonder at a few hawks that circled overhead, when he collided rather quickly with a blacksmith. The smith, a woman, had been just about to hammer a piece of heated orichalcum when Vilkas had run into her, causing the bar to fly off into the rushing water beneath the small smithy and the hammer to snap in two as it came down on the anvil.  
As the Orc woman smith turned with fury contained in her eyes, she beheld the prone child behind her. Vilkas stood, stammering apologies and dusting himself off. He saw the remains of the hammer in her hands and the speed of his concessions increased threefold.  
With precise, deadly movements, the woman set the splintered handle and head on the workbench and turned back to Vilkas. Her eyes were harsh, and her mouth was set in a grim slash of distemper. Vilkas fell into an uncomfortable speechlessness, staring fearfully at her.  
"That bar of orichalcum was worth thirty-three septims," she began quietly, but Vilkas accidentally cut over her with a burst of remorse. She held up a calloused hand, and he became silent once more.  
"The orichalcum was worth thirty-three septims, and the hammer was worth five. Do you have thirty-eight septims, child?"  
Vilkas shook his head, sweating.  
"Then go, and be done with you. Be more careful when you run, okay?" she said, softening. Vilkas nodded, and hurriedly went back the way he came. As he went back through the tunnel, he noticed a small door set into the rock. Curious, he pushed it open, and warm gusts of incense-laden air blew out. Vilkas slid in the door and shut it, welcoming the warmth over Markarth's chilly climate.  
There was a hall with a slight decline, leading to a room with some sort of structure in the centre of it. Vilkas moved down carefully, listening for anything amiss. When he came to the room, he relaxed. It was a shrine to Talos.  
Remembering how he used to worship with Vilkas, he knelt and laid one hand on the shrine, praying silently for the blessing of the man-god. He felt a slight gust of clear mountain air on his face, and smiled. He had received a blessing. Perhaps it would help with clearing all of this up.

Vilkas had returned to Ogmund's house and read the skald's collection of books. Ogmund returned a few hours after the sun went down, looking weary and haggard. As Vilkas heard the door unlock, he hastily shut The Lusty Argonian Maid and stuffed it in a bucket, grabbing Nightingales: Fact or Fiction? just in time.  
Ogmund closed the door, and grinned when he saw Vilkas reading. A man - rather, a boy - of words, like himself. However, the boy of words looked unnaturally flustered, and Ogmund inquired as to the issue.  
"N-nothing! I'm fine!" Vilkas stuttered, avoiding the skald's eyes. Ogmund frowned, then noticed the corner of a familiar yellowish book sticking out of a bucket, in the corner. He quickly reached out and grabbed the book as Vilkas dove for the bucket, trying to conceal it.  
"Were you reading this?" he said sternly. Vilkas tried to deny it, but Ogmund spoke over him.  
"You're a terrible liar - you _were_. Don't touch my books unless I give permission!" Vilkas recoiled at the harsh words, looking down. He was ashamed and stung by the reprimand. Ogmund relented a bit, and dropped onto his haunches in from of Vilkas.  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you. Please don't read that; it's a bit too old for you right now. Okay?" Vilkas nodded quietly, closing Fact or Fiction. Ogmund placed The Lusty Argonian Maid on top of the bookcase, out of Vilkas' reach, and brought back The Yellow Book of Riddles.  
"Here," he said, smiling and extending the book to Vilkas. "Read this while I prepare dinner."  
Vilkas took the book gratefully and began to flip through its pages, solving some riddles with ease and others only after minutes of intense rumination. When dinner was ready, Ogmund called Vilkas over to the table, but he continued poring over one riddle. The old Nord finally came over and gently shook Vilkas' shoulder.  
"Dinner is ready. What's gotten you so puzzled, lad?"  
"This riddle," Vilkas replied absently, still staring hard at the words.  
"Which is it?" Ogmund said, interestedly peering at the pages. Vilkas pointed, and the skald read it aloud in a humourously dramatic voice.  
"_We hurt without moving, we poison without touching. We bear the truths and the lies, and we are not to be judged by our size. What are we?_"  
Both sat in hard thought for a minute, then Ogmund chucked.  
"How ironic."  
Vilkas snapped his head up, eyes wide. "You know the answer?"  
Ogmund nodded victoriously, a mischievous grin plastered on his face.  
"Tell me!"  
"No. The point of a riddle is its challenge; figure it out for yourself!" he laughed, but as Vilkas returned to the book, he chided, "But not right now. Come eat, and then we'll see if you can work it out, okay?"  
The boy reluctantly put down the book and crossed the room to Ogmund's dinner table, beholding what he had made.  
A scrumptious meal awaited him. A bowl of chicken soup, topped with a few dumplings and some herb Vilkas didn't recognise, sat next to a pile of grilled leeks and steak. Ogmund had filled their cups with water instead of mead, a change that disappointed Vilkas. A bowl of apples set on the end of the table caught his eye, and he reached for one.  
"Wait!" Ogmund cried. "We need to pray to the Divines, giving thanks for our dinner."  
Vilkas nodded, surprised. He didn't know Ogmund worshipped. He was expecting individual, silent prayers, but Ogmund began to speak aloud.  
"O Gods of this land, we offer you thanks for our food and drink. We thank you for another day on Nirn, and we thank you for the mercy you showed..." he cracked an eye questioningly, seeming to be trying to decide something. "...the mercy you showed Vilkas this day."  
Vilkas flinched slightly. Kodlak was trying to keep his transformation quiet, and he had gone and told Ogmund his name.  
When Ogmund finished, they began eating. After a few minutes of silent consumption, Ogmund said,  
"I heard that a Companion has gone missing, in Whiterun. Some of the Khajiit that run the caravans had come in for a drink, and were talking about it."  
Vilkas froze. In an instant his heart rate tripled and his senses sharpened, ready to fight or flee.  
"Vilkas... is that you?"  
Slowly, unsure of what he was doing, Vilkas nodded.  
"By the gods... what in Oblivion happened?"  
The Companion took a deep breath.  
"I don't want to talk about it."  
"But-"  
"I think it's high time that I left, Ogmund. Thank you for your hospitality," Vilkas said coldly, jumping out of his seat and collecting the fox pelt he had brought. As he made his way to the door, he turned and looked over his shoulder.  
Immeasurable sadness and pity was etched into the skald's weathered face.

Vilkas had managed to beg the fifty septims to pay the carriage driver to take him to Solitude. The driver had been reluctant to take Vilkas that far on fifty septims, but a bit of crocodile tears on Vilkas' part did the trick. The ride was uneventful, except for a dragon that flew overhead, heading towards the Reach.  
"Damn it," Kibell had muttered, looking back at it and writing something down in a book. "That's the third one this month. They come from somewhere near the Pale, fly over to Solitude, get frightened by the sheer number of guards, and head south to an easier nut to crack. Shame."  
Vilkas was barely listening. He was deep in thought, turning everything that had transpired over in his mind. There was a solution to this, an answer, but until Vilkas found it, he wouldn't go back to Whiterun. He knew his family would be looking frantically for him, and would lose his trail almost immediately - unless they went to Markarth, which they would eventually do. It was a matter of time before they picked up the scent again, and once that happened, Vilkas would be hard-pressed to vanish again. Not that he entirely wanted to.  
Throughout his ruminations, the riddle from Ogmund's book kept repeating itself in his head.  
"_We hurt without moving, poison without touching. We bear the truths and the lies, and are not to be judged by our size._"  
He remembered how kind Ogmund had been, all of the things he had said. All of the things he had said. Words. _Words!_  
Vilkas exclaimed happily, whooping and yelling. Kibell gave him an odd look, but they were almost to Solitude, so he would bear this strange little child until he dropped him off. Then he was the guards' problem.

* * *

**A/N**: Sweet _JEGUS_, this is a long chapter. I wanted to get down a lot of things, and I'm pretty happy overall with this one. Going to switch back to a vaguely Farkas/Aela/Velas POV next chapter.

I realise the 'words' riddle isn't actually in _The Yellow Book of Riddles_, but I don't care! Creative licence, people.

Also, a spoiler for Chapter 12: watch?v=DCpsusTta4w

Whoops, that's Morgan Freeman on helium. Here: watch?v=Ly-dWbwfpRI


End file.
